|Donald.Todd|

I read somewhere that wisdom = knowledge applied, so who better than the honorable Donald Todd to talk about the craft of writing? 

Several years ago when I was working as a development executive, Donald and I worked together on a Warner Bros. project that was set up at CBS and the experience was so wonderful I’ve been stalking him ever since.  He’s my go-to person when I need advice or insights into whatever frustrating process I’m in the midst of; I love his honesty, his wit and dry sense of humor, and his no-holds barred look at our industry.  Moreover, he’s damn good at what he does.

He shares many gems including his writing pet peeves, what a perfect pitch should include and how to know when a script is really done.

RS:  In regards to your creative process, where do you draw inspiration from?  How and where do the ideas show up?

DT:  Since inspiration is unreliable, I’ve come to depend more on intention:  what do I need to accomplish here, with the effort?  Is there an actress who’s looking for a comedy?  A streaming service that wants a new fun procedural?  Did I just read a book in which a minor character was the uneducated bodyguard for a high-end call girl, and wonder if there’s a relationship there worth exploring?  Point is, I give myself an assignment, and the specificity of that one thing allows the many random connections and memories and old notions and themes that are swimming in my subconscious to attach to it.  I believe the subconscious contains amazing ideas and revelations — the joy and surprise of discovery is the whole reason I write — but trying to reach in and grab them doesn’t work.

Like catching a fish by hand.  I usually have to give my brain a job… then pretend to go home for the day.  Then the ideas can sneak in on the periphery and delight me.  It’s taken me a long time to give myself permission to let the good ideas come, and to not beat myself up when they don’t.  And by a long time, I mean I haven’t yet, but I hope I get there some day.  

But because this is a job for me, I can’t wait for ideas like a wildlife photographer camped out, hoping a lion wanders by.  So I write stuff down.  Anything.  The first thought, the most useless one, a scene idea, a character notion… it just tells the good stuff that it’s okay to come out now.  And I do it BY HAND — I’m a huge advocate for the connection between the hand and the brain.  I don’t use the computer until I’m actually writing.  It’s not for thinking, or creating, it’s for suddenly remembering that instead of writing I need to buy something.

The first thought, the most useless one, a scene idea, a character notion… it just tells the good stuff that it’s okay to come out now.

And sure, you’re saying, this is just what an old guy does, he doesn’t get that the rest of us think on our devices.  Okay.  And I’m saying no you don’t. 

RS: Has your process changed over the years?  If so, how? 

DT:  I bought a cork board.  I used to do it on the floor of my office.  Having dogs changed that.  Otherwise, occasionally I will use an app for index cards, and there are some better ones available now that we’ve been forced to work away from writer’s rooms… but they just don’t show enough at one time.  I want to see the WHOLE STORY, with different colors of cards for characters’ stories, and how it all feels together.  Once it’s digital, it just feels — and I know this is counterintuitive — set.  Digital is still my last step. 

RS:  Do you have any pet peeves when it comes to formatting?  

DT:  How much time do you have to argue about double-spacing after a period?  I’ve given up fighting it, but not given in:  I double-space because that’s how the Bible was written.  Or something.  I can’t remember.  But there’s no reason to stop.  Besides that, I just tell people, find a script and make yours look like that.  It’s not hard.  In single-camera scripts, the parentheticals do NOT go in the body of the dialogue!  That is lazy and makes you look like you didn’t make any effort to learn.  I don’t want to be your teacher, this is a profession, so look professional.  And here’s one that baffles me, but I see it a LOT:  don’t just end your script or act without putting END OF ACT or END OF EPISODE or whatever.  All the time, I read scripts where the scene just stops.  Is there another page missing?  I don’t know. 

RS:  What’s a mistake writers make when it comes to action lines?  What should you not include?  Is there a tip you can give in order to make them succinct?  

DT:  The answer to this one depends on what the script is for.  If it’s a spec, then it’s a sales document, and you have to consider the reader.  What is the tone you want them to get from your action lines?  I was raised to use as few descriptions as possible, but executives are less able to imagine, so you need to really set the scene.  Use exactly that many lines, not more.  If you’re trying to show how smart YOU are, cut it out.  Show how smart the characters are.  Shane Black is a helluva writer, but he introduced that smart ass, “we both know you’re reading a script” glibness that infected every spec afterward.  As if that’s what got him the million bucks, not the story.  So keep it simple, but do not assume the reader will do any work. 

RS:  Character Descriptions:  I worked with a writer that heard mixed advice when it came to dropping ethnicity into the description.  What’s your take? 

DT:  Only if it is key to the story or the life of the character.  Not just to describe them.  If the scene is about being of one ethnicity or another, or it would be different if they were different, then you need to put it in.  But don’t cast your script.  You limit the possibilities, and you want to allow all the reasons to say yes that you can.

RS:  Once you’re sold on what your next project is, how do you proceed?  Index cards, white board?  How do you organize your initial scribblings?

DT:  Back to that notebook, and a pen.  Could be a pencil for some; I use a fine-tip blue pen.  Always have.  It’s also the reason I use the same coffee cup every day — the sameness signals a mental readiness to write.  An association.  After letting myself write down every single thing I can think of about the idea, in no order, I begin to prepare a pitch (this answer supposes that I have to pitch this to sell it; for what I’d do if I was just going to write it, skip forward a bit).  That’s the hardest thing in the world, and I mean of any job anywhere, including crab fishing.  It’s like that final paper you had to do your senior year, except your livelihood rests on it.  This stage is organized by: how can I explain this idea so someone buys it?  It’s a sales tool, very simply, and designed to get you to what you want to do.  

If the question is, how do I begin once I begin, that takes me to the notebook again, but now we add INDEX CARDS.  In my scribblings about every single thing I can think of about the show, are scenes and lines and thematic ideas and random bits, and everything goes on a card.  Scenes go on white cards.  Ideas that might be IN scenes go on another color card.  Me, I use a cork board.  With push pins.  If I’m in a writer’s room and there’s money for a magnetic white board with magnetic cards, awesome.  But at home, it’s index cards and a board.  I need the visual feedback of seeing the story in front of me, in space.  Structure forms from there — asking what do I KNOW I want, where do I KNOW I want it… then I fill in. 

RS:  What’s some advice you wished you had gotten when first starting out?

DT:  Write shorter.  Start later in the scene.  Be less in love with the dialogue and more conscious of the emotional core of each scene.  Also, more practically: the executives or producers are not out to get you, or make the script worse.  Their notes might not be the way to make it better, but their intentions are positive.  So listen to find the intention, and if it’s unclear, ask.  Then try your best to do the note, if it’s not obviously bad.  There might be — generally is — a better way to get to where you’re going that you wouldn’t have found without trying the note.

RS:  With all of your experience, what’s still difficult to navigate?

DT:  What’s still difficult, and always will be, for any real writer, is to do the work:  to craft a story, to outline it, to give the characters genuine human motivations, to do the work.  It’s just hard.  I guess once I realized that, that made it easier, paradoxically.  I didn’t automatically assume that because I was stuck that I was terrible at this.  I mean, I am, but I don’t assume it anymore. 

What’s still difficult… for any real writer, is to do the work.  It’s just hard.

What’s easier — but only a little — is believing that when I’m stuck, I WILL figure out a solution.  That just comes from having done it enough; it’s based on observation and memory, even though my brain is still completely convinced I’ve written my last word and have been found out as a fraud.  I’m better able now to do what my wife does when I talk, and that’s to say “Mm, hm,” and not listen. 

RS:  What advice can you give for writers first entering a writer’s room?  

DT:  Wait for the showrunner to find a seat, and don’t sit beside them.  Or across from them.  Too much pressure.  Sit near the board, because you’ll probably be asked to write stuff on it because you’re new.  As for when to talk, how much to say… those are tough questions.  Whatever you choose will probably be wrong, at first, because you don’t know what you’re doing. That’s fine — everyone in the room was there at some point, and most are nice and encouraging.  Your job is to listen, and if you have something to contribute, do.  Don’t talk just to show you can, or to say you don’t like an idea.  These things are not helpful, and your job is to be helpful. Before too long, you’ll find the rhythm, you’ll understand better what the showrunner is looking for, you’ll realize your ideas are not worse than anyone else’s, and you’ll talk. 

Also?  Don’t re-pitch an idea that was rejected.  Just don’t.  Even if it might actually save the show.  Not worth it. 

In a writer’s room your job is to listen, and if you have something to contribute, do.

RS:  What does the perfect pitch include? What should it not include? 

DT:  Pass.  Okay, I’ll try, but I really have no idea.  I’m good at pitching, but they’re all different.  I’m writing one now (did I mention it’s my least favorite part of the job, by far?) where the producing partners want the pilot story and the first season’s major turns and surprises, plus the characters’ arcs, and it’s exhausting.  But to answer your question, the perfect pitch is one that paints a picture for the buyer of just what your show is.  They have NO IDEA what’s in your head, so make them see it.  Why do you want to write this?  Or need to?  That matters a lot.  Why now, that an audience can hook into?  What else is it like, so I understand the language we’re speaking here?  What is the key character dynamic?  What is the tone?  What will they care about?  That’s the big one: make the buyer feel the emotion.  A perfect pitch makes the buyer say of course we need this, I’m surprised we don’t already have it.  

RS:  How many drafts do you go through before the studio or network sees your official “first draft”? 

DT:  That depends on my producing partners, which I usually have — a pod or company of some kind.  I’ll do a couple of drafts before they see it, and usually several more — three, sometimes — based on their thoughts, before the studio does.  If I’ve chosen my partners well, by the time the studio gets it, the studio notes are minimal.  By the way, since I write on notepad first, the first draft I type on computer is already a second draft.  So I’ll be on the third, really before I deliver anything.

RS:  If you’re writing a script on spec and no one is waiting for it or you don’t have a studio or network involved, how do you know when it’s fully baked to your satisfaction?

DT:  It’s been awhile.  But I can say that I know when it’s done when I can say this was the intention.  It can take any number of attempts to find an expression of your intention.  You might change your intention in the looking for it.  So it’s done when you can support it and defend it and not apologize for it or make excuses or belittle it at all.  When you can say, ‘This is it, this is what I want you to read.”  The only spec drama script I wrote (which is the first thing of mine YOU read, “The Night”) took two weeks from idea to first draft, and the polished first draft is what I sent out. 

Your script is done when you can support it and defend it and not apologize for it or make excuses.

It just came out that way, and I was happy.  Well, as happy as I get, anyway.

RS:  Do you have an opinion on LookBooks? Have you ever created one for a pitch? Or a finished spec script?  

DT:  I hate them.  We’re just training the execs to be less and less able to listen and imagine.  And I hate extra work.  I will, however, bring in some photos to illustrate the setting or tone of the show.  A specific location, say, if it’s unique and key to the show, or a still of a scene from a movie this is like, so we can all say, “Oh, okay, I get that.”  If that’s a LookBook, then fine. 

RS:  And lastly, what’s a show on the air that you wish you created?  

DT:  Jeopardy.  So much money.  Other than that… Patriot, on Amazon.  Not “on the air,” but I guess everything lives forever.  Still being made now?  Succession.  

And there you have it… wise, wise words from the damn talented, Donald Todd.

For more like this one, try: https://rebecca-stay.com/writer-director-betsy-not-betty-thomas

Bio: 

Donald Todd created the Christina Applegate-starring ABC comedy series Samantha Who?, which won an Emmy and a People’s Choice Award.  He also has worked on NBC’s This is Us, ABC’s Ugly Betty and Fox’s Sleepy Hollow.  Deadline